“No!” replied Druce with disappointment in his tone. “Nothink so important as that, sir. But when she walked away up the street, sir, she sneezed several times. That’s what I’ve just thought of, sir.”
Goodall threw his head up hopelessly. “Can you beat that?” he said plaintively. “The stiff!” He heard Druce slowly descending the stairs, proudly aware no doubt of a very perfect piece of Pelmanism.
“There you are,” asserted Goodall, “there you have——”
His remarks were interrupted by a ring of the telephone from the private office. Mr. Day went into his room and picked up the receiver.
The others outside heard him say, “Yes! He’s here now. I’ll bring him to the ’phone.”
He came out. “Mr. Linnell,” he announced, “Mr. Daventry, your partner, would like to speak to you on the telephone.”
“Thank you,” said Linnell. He entered and took the message.
“What?” he said. “Good God, Peter—you can’t mean it. It’s impossible.”
He stayed a minute or two longer—then replaced the receiver with trembling finger. For the moment he had a hard task to control himself. Then he pulled himself together and reëntered the Gallery.
“Gentlemen,” he said very gravely, “Mr. Laurence P. Stewart was murdered last night in his library at Assynton. He was found with his skull battered in!”